


A Nice Soldier

by Haze



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Gets Over It, Drabble, Gen, In Which Sherlock Is A Bit Cynical, M/M, Teeny Tiny Piece of Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1799221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haze/pseuds/Haze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sherlock, it began with "Good shot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Just a tiny drabble I wrote for a friend for his birthday and wanted to share.

For Sherlock, it began with “Good shot.”

He didn’t believe in love at first sight because frankly the idea was idiotic and it wasn’t _love_ anyone felt, it was lust. Chemistry, of the most pedestrian and boring sort. People who claimed to put stake in the myth were putting stake in the wrong cascade of endorphins. Which was infuriating, it was wrong, everyone was miserably and completely wrong. But Sherlock didn’t criticize it, not anymore (and no matter what Mycroft believed it wasn’t due to the number of failed dates Sherlock had suffered through during his lucid years). It still roiled him, still drew a scathing counter to the tip of his tongue, but he’d learned to bite back the anger and seethe in silence. It didn’t matter. Hardly affected him, at any rate.

So, it didn’t begin with John Watson the ex-army doctor psychosomatically limping into the lab at Bart’s and offering his mobile to a stranger, or with an introduction to an eclectic flat in central London. Not with an offhand compliment that drove a man who couldn’t shut up to speechlessness, not with a text message invitation back to the battlefield, not with an adrenaline-rush cab chase and not even with a razor quick jump to defend London’s one-time champion heroin addict against dishonor.

Sherlock Holmes steadfastly, absolutely did not believe in love at first sight, and extraordinary though he was, John Watson was no exception. More data was required. More evidence.

Therefore, it began on a wet London street in the middle of the night, with a stupid shock blanket and a dead murderer and what was the most astonishing deduction Sherlock had made to date:

John Watson had saved his life, but it wasn’t only that, God no, there were _so many variables_ that it took Sherlock a dizzying moment to catch up. John had followed him, had been concerned enough about Sherlock that he had actually tracked him down all the way across London, had steadied the tremor in his hand long enough to pull a gun and shoot through two windows to spare him a fifty-fifty chance at death. At some point, in an hour’s separation and a “Could be dangerous,” John had deemed Sherlock’s corner of the universe important enough to start carrying a gun to protect it should the need arise.

John Watson, the soldier, sent home from one war by one bullet, joining a new war with a second bullet. Doctor-ready. Army-ready. Shooting the cabbie wasn’t an act of heroism, it was an offering. He’d said it himself. _Ready when you are._ Ready to join Sherlock’s personal battlefield, and God, wasn’t that a brilliant first.

He didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Love at first rescue? Well. He _had ___always liked a nice soldier.


End file.
